#white room

[whump-in-the-closet]

"N-no, please, I don't want-"

"You know, it's funny that you still think you have a say in this..."

Sidekick muttered an apology they didn’t mean.

Hero stood with his back to them but whirled on them when he heard this. “What’s that?”

Sidekick kept their eyes on the tiled floor. It was an ugly shade of yellow, further emphasized by the blood splattered at random. “I said, sorry for sneaking out last night.”

Hero towered over them and Sidekick shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Hero’s breath was hot on their face when he snapped, “When I accepted you as my apprentice, I was under the impression you would dedicate your motivation and time to my work. Our work.”

Sidekick hesitated. “I…I am!”

“I was under the impression that my training was tiring.“

“It is!”

“Then you,” Hero’s voice dropped to a hiss. “are clearly not dedicating yourself fully to this mission if you have time for little escapades like last night.”

Sidekick’s head swam. This was not what they expected and this was not the bright smiling Hero of the press and billboards.

Hero grabbed them by the back of their collar, twisting it sharply. “Your life is your training. Do you understand me?”

“Yes!”

“You will address me as Sir.”

Sidekick didn’t wait to be prompted. “Yes Sir!”

Hero smiled like he did in commercials and when shaking Senator’s hands, but Sidekick saw now how it didn’t reach his eyes— an empty grin. A terrifying one.

“Consider this part of your training,” said Hero and dragged Sidekick to a side door.

He opened it and hauled them inside a white room. Barely larger than a closet, with white walls and floor.

Sidekick panicked even as Hero let go of them. No no no no—

“Please, I’m sorry!”

Don’t leave me—

Hero paused at the door.

“P-please, no, I don’t want—” Sidekick hadn’t realised they were crying.

Hero only laughed. “You know, it’s funny that you still think you have a say in this. Don’t worry, kid, we’ll make a hero out of you yet.” He locked the door behind him.

Sidekick curled up into a ball and let the white room crush them.

[andromesa]

white space? more like white room (dies)

[inspiredlivingspaces]

IG lisagilmoredesign

[a-birdie-on-a-rose]

[comiiical]

open to f/m muses. when male, muses who bottom exclusively if shipping purposes.

atlas has a severe cronic limp on a leg and a hardly reconstructed bone underneath. hence the pain.

There was a slow heavy dump down on the ground, as he took the last step. Humidity and heat were the worst of that state, and the worst for when his leg was acting up. In need of much of a break, Atlas' hands held onto the fence and sat down on the last step with a loud g roan and louder sound of his own butt meeting the floor. His hands reached out to his knee as he tried to spin his leg from side to side to reduce the pressure and aim at keeping his bloodflow normal. Maybe it had been a bad option going out for a run. And maybe, just maybe, he should've come with company rather than not .But at least he made it back to his apartment.

[whumpsstuff]

So there’s a room. Empty white room. Every second outside the room feels like 10 years inside, however, the person inside doesn’t have any needs(hunger etc.) nor ages up. They just have to sit in that room and wait, with nothing to do.

Whumper putting whumpee in that room if they misbehave. Whumpee never misbehaved again since the threat of being put there for 20 minutes.

[yogadaily]

(via A guide to the pose dedicated to Visvamitra (Visvamitrasana) | Om Yoga Magazine   || Curated with love by yogadaily) 

[thevampcave]

하얀방 Unborn But Forgotten(2002) directed by Lim Chang-jae

[itsmamamoon]

25

Made with Garry's Mod & Photoshop

[creamyberries-lovely]

[oldfilmsflicker]

new-to-me #256 - White Room

[y2k-2day]

Craig David - What’s Your Flava? (2002)

[jeyuwuso]

White room torture, but with a twist

When Whumpee wakes up, all they can see is white. White padded walls. White padded floor. White clothes. No spots of color, no shadows, no anything apart from the glaring white. There's a door with a slot that Whumpee can't open, and beside it sits a white bowl containing a scoop of bland white rice.

At first, it's terrifying. Whumpee yells for help, searches for escape, claws at the door. They cry out until their voices fail. They hammer on the walls until their fists bruise and bleed.

After that, it's boring. Painfully boring.

The go from sleeping all day to never sleeping. Whumpee gnaws at their nails and cuticles. The blood satisfies them; the taste of iron and the color red are a welcome distraction. Their thoughts have become radio static, a white hum broken by the occasional fleeting phrase.

After gulping down their daily bowl of rice, Whumpee slips into a deep, dreamless sleep and wakes up bleary-eyed and sore. Their fingers have been wrapped in white bandages. Looking up, Whumpee sees something new: a screen, glowing white.

They hear Whumper's calm voice come through a speaker. "One... Two... Three..."

"Hey! HEY!" Whumpee's voice sounds strange in their ears. "LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Whumper doesn't answer. They just keep counting in that same drawling monotone. "Four... Five... Six... Seven..."

"PLEASE!" Whumpee doesn't care how desperate they sound.

"Eight... Nine... Ten."

A soft tone plays, and that's it.

Whumpee screams for hours. They plead. They bargain. They offer to do things that would normally make them sick to their stomach.

It doesn't matter. The voice is gone.

It goes on this way for weeks. Once a day (or so Whumpee thinks; they lost track of time long ago), the speaker comes on, and Whumper's voice counts to ten.

It's small, but it's the only distraction in the silent void, and Whumpee clings to it like a life raft. It's the best ten seconds of Whumpee's day. They look forward to it for hours, and when it's over, they fall into despair, knowing it will be so long until they find relief again.

Eventually, the numbers are replaced by the alphabet. Whumpee is elated; a whole twenty-six seconds of distraction feels like the height of luxury.

More time passes, and Whumper moves from reciting the alphabet to reading their to-do list. It's different every time, and Whumpee spends their hours fantasizing about what the next one might say.

As the days pass, the communications become longer and more detailed. Whumper begins talking about themselves, telling stories from their past and tidbits about their day. Whumpee hangs on their every word. They commit it all to memory, playing it back in their minds when the loneliness begins to crush them.

Finally, the blank screen changes. It shows Whumper's face as they speak. Whumpee is captivated. They memorize every inch of Whumper's face and study their expressions. No one has ever looked so beautiful. They can't remember their own face or the sound of their own voice. The only real thing in this world is Whumper.

When the door finally opens to show Whumper standing there with a broad smile on their face, Whumpee doesn't even think to run anywhere but into their arms.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 25: Alone

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates! (And to those who don't, I hope you had a wonderful day regardless)

TW: white room torture

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee lay on their back on the floor of the padded cell, their legs in the air, rhythmically banging their feet against the cushioned white wall. Their arms lay unmoving at their sides, and Whumpee stared blankly at the plain, white ceiling, eyes glazed over.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

All sound, even their bare feet against the wall, was muffled. Even their breathing sounded like it was filtered through a layer of thick cloth. The light illuminating the cell was muted and never grew nor faded throughout the day. Whumpee had no clue how long a day even was anymore, and they didn’t know how long they’d been here.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee started to hum softly, filling the oppressive silence with quiet melodies from before they came here. They couldn’t remember the words to this particular song, but the notes were easy enough to remember. The muffled thumping of their feet set the tempo, in sync with their heartbeat and countered by their breathing.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The sound of scraping metal. Whumpee ceased humming and turned their head towards the noise, but they did not stop beating their feet in rhythm against the wall. The slot at the bottom of their cell door had been opened, and a simple white tray slid through. It contained a single bowl of white rice and a cup of water.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee regarded the tray as the slot covering closed. The rice would be bland and flavorless, the water devoid of minerals or metals. They did not look forward to eating the ‘meal', for it was as dull as the rest of the cell. Such was the nature of Whumpee’s prison.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

No color. No flavor. No texture. Barely any sound. The cell even smelled of nothing. Whumpee had been here so long its scent had become familiar. Routine. The passage of time was impossible to track because the ‘food’ deliveries had no rhyme or reason for when they came. Whumpee had tried to keep track by assuming two meals each day, but now they questioned even that logic.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Whumpee wondered if they were going insane.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Perhaps they already were.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

…

[yogadaily]

(via Alice Girard (@alicegirardyoga)-Happy tuesday 1 or 2? . . . . #yoga #kingpigeon #kingpigeonpose #yogagirl #back… – Hana.Fit  || Curated with love by yogadaily)